


Waterfalls

by h0ldthiscat



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Requests, a little bit of both, prompts, xf revival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0ldthiscat/pseuds/h0ldthiscat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She chuckles against his chest and for a moment everything feels fuzzy around the edges, like an old, precious photograph. It is tempting to let it be that. It is tempting to turn her chin up with his thumb and run his tongue across her bottom lip, and say her name like it is everything. But he doesn’t need to anymore, he tells himself. They are in a good place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterfalls

“Jesus Christ,” she sighs, pulling open her apartment door. “Did my mother call you?”

“She texted me, actually,” he says, sliding past her easily and dropping a kiss into her hair. For old time’s sake. Or whatever.

“Oh!” Scully raises her eyebrows. “Look at Mom.” Her nose is a little red, and her face is flushed like it always gets when she’s sick. But she is beautiful, in a gold-colored sweater that looks softer than her hair. 

“Voila.” He presents her with the bouquet of flowers after a grandiose gesture and a clumsy bow. 

“Mulder.” She begrudgingly takes them but he notices her trying not to smile. 

“And…” He raises the reusable shopping bag to chest height. “... your favorite.”

“My favorite?” She gets a vase from above the sink and he pretends not to glance at her tattoo when her sweater rides up above the low-slung waistband of her yoga pants.

“The Mulder Omelette.” He sets the bag down on the countertop and starts to unpack. 

“If it’s my favorite, why is it named after you?” she asks. 

“Because it’s made by me, with tender loving care.” He pretends it doesn’t hurt to say, but it does. A little. Still. 

“TLC, huh? Weren’t they the group who--”

He takes her hand suddenly and leads her in an awkward two-step, singing quietly, “Don’t go chasin’ waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to…”

Her thready alto picks up the melody, “I know that you’re gonna have it your way or nothing at all, but I think you’re moving too fast.”

“Somebody’s been practicing,” he praises, resting his chin on top of her head as they sway.

“Yes, if there’s one thing this stomach bug has given me, it’s time to hone my singing skills.”

“Don’t stop, it’s really paying off.”

“Thanks.” His vision pinholes and all he can see is her radiant smile as she says, “My single drops next week and the EP should be out by December.”

“Well that’s perfect, now I have a stocking stuffer for my interns.”

She chuckles against his chest and for a moment everything feels fuzzy around the edges, like an old, precious photograph. It is tempting to let it be that. It is tempting to turn her chin up with his thumb and run his tongue across her bottom lip, and say her name like it is everything. But he doesn’t need to anymore, he tells himself. They are in a good place. 

“How about that omelette?” he asks, stepping away.

She nods and goes to blow her nose. He familiarizes himself with her kitchen, learning that she keeps her frying pans in a different place than she did when they were living together. He tries not to let it bother him. He heats up the pan, breaks the eggs. She sniffs behind him and he turns around to see her carrying two glasses of wine.

“With omelettes?” he asks, taking his. 

“Wine goes with everything.”

He can’t argue with that. “Where’d you get these stemless glasses?”

“White elephant party at the hospital last year.” She crosses the kitchen and hoists herself up onto the counter across from the stove, looking over his shoulder as he cooks. He thinks she might still be humming “Waterfalls.”

“How’s work?” He hates that he has to ask it like some distant family member who only sees her once every three years. Mercifully, they see each other much more than that, but the fact that he doesn’t get daily updates anymore is… different. 

She shrugs. “I applied for a grant to get a 3D printer for peds. Should hear back next week.”

“Let me know.”

“I will.” He flips the omelette in the pan just to show off. “They made you chief of surgery yet?”

A smile quirks the corner of her mouth. “No, and I doubt they will anytime soon.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you could be director of the Bureau one day, you know.” He’d known even back then, after only a few months of working together, that she was something special. 

“That one wasn’t in the cards, was it?” she asks, looking into her wine glass. 

He shrugs, turns to face her, leans a hip against the countertop. “I didn’t help matters much, I suppose.”

“I chose to leave.” Her voice is firm, resolute. “I wanted to go with you.”

“And now?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Her gaze is steady but the wavering of her chin betrays her. “I chose to leave. I wanted to be on my own.”

He nods, rests a reassuring hand on her knee. When he moves to pull away she laces her fingers into his and breathes deeply, closing her eyes. 

He remembers the first time he’d visited her here, after they’d split three years ago. She’d still had things in boxes and that had given him hope. She’d answered the door in a sports bra, some exercise DVD running on the TV behind her, a sheen of sweat coating her chest. 

That had been the first “this is really the last time.”

He is not sure which number they are on now, as her head drops wearily to his shoulder and he feels the dewyness of her lips behind his earlobe, but he is just thankful that they are still counting.


End file.
